


A Retreat To Keep

by Bethynyc



Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethynyc/pseuds/Bethynyc
Summary: Post-Oathbreakers.Possession is nine-tenths of the law, except when Tarma and Kethry are involved!
Comments: 23
Kudos: 47
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Retreat To Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenbookwench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenbookwench/gifts).



> Thank you for the wonderful prompts! I hope you enjoy the story!

The battlesteeds reached the top of the hill, and Tarma pulled Ironheart to a halt. Kethry rode up next to her and stopped Hellsbane. Together, they admired the view. 

The hill looked down onto a village, bustling with life. Bracketing the village were farms with most fields filled with ripening crops and a few open spaces dotted with white blobs that were probably sheep. Beyond that, atop the opposite hill, was the manor house.

It was just as Stefan had described—huge manor house with plenty of outbuildings, a riding ring, stables, and lots of space. Perfect for the school. Tarma looked over a Kethry and they grinned at each other. 

“What was the name of this pile again? Did Stef mention it to you?” Kethry asked.

Tarma shrugged. “Something long and intricate and very Rethwellan. Ganarashar’s Palace or Retreat or something like that, named for the ancestor who built it.”

Kethry groaned. “Dreadful.”

“We can always change it to something nice and simple,” said Tarma. “Jadrek will have an idea.”

Mentioning Jadrek brought out the misty smile and faraway look in Kethry’s eyes, and Tarma snorted. “Come on. He’s about two days behind us. We’ll get everything settled before he arrives with the supply caravan, and you’ll be together soon, Greeneyes.” Stefanson had insisted on outfitting them with all new linens and blankets and the random things needed in a large household, as well as encouraging Keth to stock up on magical supplies. 

They rode down the hill and through the center of the village. People nodded at them in a friendly way, and children waved from their small games. The village looked prosperous; a mix of well-thatched cottages on the outskirts and timber and brick towards the center. The central square boasted a large fountain with the council hall to the North, the primary inn to the South, and various popular shops lined up to the East and West. 

“Hmmm,” said Tarma, “I see a familiar face.” Kethry glanced sideways out of the corner of her eye, where Tarma indicated with one quirk of her mouth. Standing outside the inn, an apron around his waist, cleaning a tankard, was Cathall. A former Sunhawk, he’d retired three years after the pair had joined. A knee injury had never quite healed properly, and his family had reached out to him. Many retired ‘Hawks ended up staying in Hawksnest, as trainers or part of the support staff for the company, but Cathall decided he’d had enough, and went to join his family of brewers. 

Apparently, this was where he’d retired to. 

~*~*~*~

“What can you tell us?” Kethry asked Cathall. 

The mares were stabled comfortably in large loose boxes, the stablehands warned of their quirks, and the two women relaxed over a meal in a small private dining room, Cathall at the table. 

“What do you need to know?” he asked. “When the news came to the village about Raschar being an Oathbreaker, and Stefansen was now king, no one here was surprised. He’d kept up a good front, but I heard things from maids, kitchen girls, you know the thing.” He shook his head, soldier’s crop grown out and brown hair turning grey at the temples. “The steward of the Retreat is the fifth or sixth son of a courtier; he got the job to keep him away from Raschar when it was clear that he was leading him into some bad habits. Ranald was five years older, and Raschar looked up to him, thought he was clever and worldly, but…” 

Kethry glanced at Tarma. “We get the idea.”

Cathall went on. “He isn’t the worst steward—Ganarashar’s Retreat is in good shape and ready for visitors, but none of the younger women in the village will work there. Devid Cook is the one who really keeps things running, but Ranald has a way of making Devid’s hard work look like his own.” He rubbed at his knee. 

“How’s the knee been?” asked Tarma. 

With a shrug, Cathall grimaced. “Better some days than others. I keep a stool behind the bar and the kids are good about serving and cleaning. I just wish I’d been able to join you and the other ‘Hawks. For Idra.”

The three raised their cups in a silent toast to their Captain. Cathall continued, “What’s your plan for that pile anyway?”

Smiling, Kethry outlined their plan for a combination mage school, warrior training, and education for scholars, all at the Retreat. Cathall nodded. “Sounds like a good plan, and one that will help out the village as well. People will have a place to work that’s safe, and a customer for their foodstuffs.” He smiled, and his craggy face lit up with the smile. “I’ll help any way I can.”

~*~*~*~

The next morning, the pair rode out to the Retreat. It wasn’t far from the village, but they wanted to have a good start on their strategy to take possession. Ranald was currently in charge and could cause – would most likely cause – problems when they arrived. 

Kethry almost felt a little sorry for him. “I do wish we had Warrl here, though.”

Tarma shook her head, “No we want him guarding Jadrek’s back. The last thing we need is for the caravan to arrive and not have us securely in place. I don’t want to fire Ranald if it isn’t needful, but…”

At that moment, Need shivered in the scabbard, and Kethry gasped. “I don’t think Need likes the idea of Ranald. She’s not pulling urgently, but she is definitely unhappy. Something is not right at that place.”

Tarma firmed her lips, and they rode onward. 

~*~*~*~

They reached the gate, which wasn’t exactly guarded. It was closed, and an elderly armsman snoozed in a shelter nearby. A bell hung from the gate. 

The women looked at each other. Tarma was more successful at suppressing her smile, but Kethry said “Raid?” and that single word made her bondmate snort. 

“We shouldn’t, though. Poor man, he should be in a bed, not this excuse for a guardhouse.” At that, Tarma did grin, and leaned over to whisper a word to Ironheart. 

The battlesteed sneezed. Loudly, wetly, and directly onto the sleeping guard. 

The guard sat up suddenly, now fully awake He grasped for the pike at his side, which slipped past his hand and fell over with a clatter, and his leather helmet slid over his eyes for a moment, so he had to push it back, revealing his bushy white eyebrows and watery blue eyes. “What’s that? What’s happening?”

Kethry cleared her throat. “We are here to see the steward of Ganarashar’s Retreat. We bring tidings from the King.” She opened the saddlebag to show the messenger case embossed with the Royal Seal of Rethwellan. 

The armsman swallowed audibly and bowed. “This way, please.” He opened the gate and stood back at attention as the women rode through. 

Once they were in the courtyard, the armsman rang the bell. Two stableboys pelted from the stable, and a man came out of the manor. Tarma stepped aside to introduce the mares to the stableboys and make sure they understood what not to do, while Kethry turned to the man with a pleasant smile.

Need grumbled in her scabbard, vibrating against Kethry’s back. 

The man before her was well dressed, though not for visitors. It seemed likely that he was aware of the situation yet wanted the appearance of being surprised. He bowed his head quickly before appraising her with his eyes. 

“Steward Ranald, at your service, miss. Are you a courier?”

Kethry stood tall and graced him with an icier version of her pleasant smile. “Steward Ranald, I am Kethryveris, Adept of the White Winds. I bear missives from King Stefanson of Rethwellan. May we speak inside?”

The steward nodded and bowed more deeply as he opened the door for her to enter the manor. He led her to a well-appointed parlor off the main hallway and rang a bell. A young man entered, not wearing livery precisely, but in similar colors to Ranald. Kethry surmised that russet and grey were the house colors and resolved to change them. 

“May I offer you some refreshment?” said Ranald. The steward offered a chair, plush, elderly, but in good condition, on one side of the serving table. 

“Certainly.” Kethry sat with grace in her seat, noting that the other chair was slightly more ornate in carving, and a bit higher than her chair. 

“Cider, please, Tavan. And would you see if Cook has any seedcakes for our guest?” The young man bowed and departed. 

Kethry opened the messenger bag and removed the first of several sealed scrolls from Stefanson. “I’m here, Steward Ranald, directly from King Stefanson in Petras. Doubtless, you have heard of the recent demise of the former King, Raschar?”

The steward shifted uncomfortably. “Rumors, mostly. Not anything solid. I thought Stefanson was declared outlaw.”

“No longer. Messengers were sent—did you not receive one?” She knew that one had been sent. Stefan had made sure of it when he took the throne. 

“Why, no, lady.” His voice was too surprised, too innocent. Obviously lying. 

Kethry handed him the scroll in her hand. “Then consider me the messenger.” 

Ranald took the scroll, examined the seal before breaking it, and read the scroll. “This…this deeds Ganarashar’s Retreat to _you_!”

“It does.” She watched him carefully, waiting for some sort of explosion of rage, but it didn’t come. Instead, he visibly steeled himself and rolled up the scroll. At that moment, the young footman entered with a tray of cider and refreshments. 

“Well, you should sample some of the results of the work here at the manor. We have a very fine orchard on the property, and we press the cider here.” He lifted the bottle to pour into her goblet. “Look, you can see the edge of it through the window.” 

_Oldest trick in the book,_ thought Kethry, but she turned to look through the window. Like most windows, it was many panes in a leaded frame, each one small and bubbled with imperfections. Since the manor was kept by the kingdom, it would have the best available amenities. Cautiously she watched the reflection of the steward in the window while pretending to admire the orchard, and saw him drop powder from his signet ring into her cider. 

She did see Tarma walking towards the back court of the manor and wondered what she learned in the stables.

~*~*~*~

Tarma noticed the stench as she entered the stables. It wasn’t directly in the stables, but close enough that if she could smell it, the horses definitely could. “What’s that smell, boys?”

The stableboys looked at each other. The taller one took a breath, and whispered, “The messenger.”

Royal messengers were marked as special—killing one was an assault on the king himself. They were also difficult to kill, being well trained in fighting and riding the swiftest horses known in Rethwellan. Tarma inhaled sharply at the nerve of this steward. “Show me,” she ordered.

The boys brought her behind the stables, not far from where the horse manure was piled before being used for fertilizer in the fields. Anyone else would think it was the pile, but Tarma was far too familiar with the odor of death. 

The grave was shallow, and despite being covered with a layer of hastily placed sod, was obvious to anyone with even a hint of training and experience. 

She turned to the boys. “When did the messenger arrive?” 

“Three moons ago, lady,” said the smaller. “Uncle Cathall told us what happened, with the Sunhawks and Captain Idra. With the other king. But Ranald brought everyone together and told them us it was a lie, that Raschar was trying to trick Stefansen. But we knew, because of Uncle Cathall.”

Tarma smiled at the child. “So, you know who we are.” 

Both children nodded. “There are songs…”

Tarma groaned at that but couldn’t deny that songs sometimes made things simpler. “Well, we are going to need your help.”

“Devid Cook knows what happened. He can tell you everything.”

Soon, Tarma was in the kitchen, listening to the cook tell all he knew. 

“…and he poisoned the Royal Messenger. The horse is in the back paddock, waiting for him to find a buyer, and the livery and tack are all in his private storage room.” Devid Cook finished whisking the herbs into a marinade and poured it over a large roast. “We all knew the truth of it, but he was that afraid of losing his place here. Ranald wasn’t happy about leaving court when he was young, but now he’s king in his own castle, so to speak. He won’t like you and the mage here at all.”

Tarma looked up. “Poisoned? How?”

“Something in the drink, I supposed. Not anything I make, but any of the drinks could be poisoned.”

Tavan, the young footman, who was the older brother of the two stableboys, paled in fear. “Cider—he asked for cider, along with your seedcakes, Devid!”

~*~*~*~

Before they left Petras, Kethry commissioned a custom scabbard for Need. It gave her the ability to draw one-handed over her shoulder but was snug against her back and completely hidden by her cloak. The leather was thin and strong, and kept Need nestled against her. She only hoped that the sword’s healing powers would be able to work through the leather and cloth and keep her from harm. It wasn’t something they wanted to test. 

So she sipped at the cider, not too much, but enough that Ranald relaxed and sat back in his chair. She felt the burn in her stomach before an answering warmth from Need flowed into her. 

_Good. He won’t have expected that._

Still, she needed him to be…confident. Overconfident. He was almost there. “You look a little unsteady, lady Adept. Let me have someone show you where you can rest in peace.” The steward’s voice held an unctuous concern that didn’t quite mask triumph. 

Kethry dropped her head into her hands. “I do feel a little ill,” she said, using the breathy tone that made men underestimate her. She could see his smug grin through her half-closed eyes.

At that moment, Tarma burst into the room. 

~*~*~*~

Tavan led Tarma and Devid to the parlor, to see Kethry holding her head in her hands, and Ranald smirking at her. Tarma shouldered past the boy and into the room, weapons in her hands. 

Ranald jumped from his chair. “She just fell over!”

At that, Kethry stood up straight and drew Need from her hidden scabbard. Between Tarma’s long knives and Need, Ranald cowered in the corner. He glanced over at Tavan and Devid, but the two shook their heads and backed away from the doorway. 

“Now then,” said Kethry, “Before you attempted to poison me, we were discussing the fact that Ganarashar’s Retreat is now the property of the two of us, as granted by King Stefansen of Rethwellan.”

“And you, Steward Ranald, are under arrest for the murder of a Royal Messenger and the attempted murder of Adept Kethryveris,” growled Tarma. “Be very grateful that we are ethical mercenaries, and don’t slay you where you stand.”

Ranald gulped.

~*~*~*~

The next day, Jadrek, Warrl, and the caravan arrived, slightly ahead of schedule. They were met at the gate by the two grinning women. 

Jadrek greeted them cheerfully, then looked around. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a steward?”

Tarma shrugged. “We had a disagreement, and he’s in custody in the village at the moment. We plan to return him to Petras with the King’s guardsmen, when we’re done with the caravan.”

“Sounds like a story there. I hope to hear it all—later.” He looked around. “Ganarashar’s Retreat. I never thought I’d see this old place. It has quite a history.”

“Really?” Kethry smiled and winked at Tarma. “What did it start out as?”

Jadrek thought for a moment. “I believe the oldest part of the building was a keep, here on the borders during the very beginnings of Rethwellan. I’d need to walk around to be sure, but history says that this was a fortified keep before it was expanded into a manor house and retreat for the wealthy and politically inconvenient.”

“I like the sound of that. Keep. Simple, straightforward, easy to spell.” Tarma looked over at Kethry. “What do you think?”

Shafts of sunlight cut through the clouds, lighting up the Keep and surrounding it in a warm glow. Kethry looked up at Jadrek and took his hand. “The Keep. Yes, that’s the perfect name for our new school.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my magical beta, malinaldarose (coralysendria), who helped me get over the hump and kept my commas tamed.


End file.
